


All Hell Breaks Loose

by toewsyourheart



Series: supernatural au [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, But Fixed, Career Ending Injuries, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Dark, Kissing, M/M, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Unlikely Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7107526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Demons like hockey?” Jonny asks, skeptical and shaken. </p><p>“You humans aren’t the only ones with hobbies, okay?” the demon replies easily. </p><p>-</p><p>Jonny's looking to cut a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hell Breaks Loose

**Author's Note:**

> the supernatural au nobody asked for. 
> 
> jonny's a human, a hockey player. patrick is a crossroads demon. 
> 
> title taken from season 2.

The night is chilly, a dark, eerie kind with shiver-inducing winds and creepy sounds of rustling leaves. Jonny can see his breath, and he cautiously scans the travel-worn roads around him, questioning again what he’s doing here, out in the middle of nowhere with a shovel in his hand.

It shouldn’t be this. If he weren’t so desperate, hanging at the end of his rope with no bearable options left, it wouldn’t be. 

Jonny tugs his toque down snugly over his ears, summoning items tucked beneath one arm as he reaches that center spot in the crossroads, and reassures himself of the necessity of this. 

Something’s not right, and he knows it. He feels it with every step, with every blurred thought and throbbing migraine. There’s no sugarcoating it, no ignoring it: Jonny’s head is irreversibly off, jumbled and fucked up. He was told it might happen, if he kept playing and taking impact; that at some point, one hit would be one too many, and he’d never be able to go back. 

He didn’t listen, and that day came, that hit happened. The countless doctors and treatments were futile efforts, band aids to weakly patch the shell of Jonny’s former self. It rendered hockey over for him, but he’s not ready to give it up. 

Jonny won’t give it up. 

So yes, he’s grasping at straws, doing the unthinkable to fix his repeated mistake, but it’s for a good cause—to save his health, his career. He’ll be the only one to suffer for it in the long run. 

At least, that’s what Jonny tells himself over and over, as he buries the small box in the shallow hole he digs, hands trembling in fear—fear that it won’t work and that it will. He barely recognizes his own voice as he reads from a slip of paper pulled from his pocket, stumbling over the sloppily written Latin:

_Daemon, esto subjecto voluntati meae._

Jonny swallows hard and fidgets as he waits, a gust of wind whipping through the trees, cold and piercing. 

“Well, well,” comes a silky voice from behind, “what’s this?—” 

Jonny startles, jerking quickly to the sound. 

“—Jonathan Toews.”  

“H-How do you?” Jonny stammers, blinking rapidly in disbelief, unsure if he’s seeing correctly; he knew, if it worked, this was supposed to happen, but it still didn’t adequately prepare him.

There’s a man in front of him. It seems he’s just a man, but Jonny knows better; he’s a demon.

He’s dressed in a fitted, black suit—no tie—and his blonde hair is slicked back, a few errant curls framing his face. His jaw is strong, brows thick, and his eyes are bright and blue and dangerous; his whole being reeks of it—of darkness and mischief. 

Jonny thinks to arm himself with the shovel at his feet, but the moment the thought passes though his mind, the demon casually flicks his wrist, and suddenly, the shovel is twenty feet away, landing in the dirt with a thud. 

Jonny gasps, and the demon’s mouth curls into a wicked smile. 

“Sorry, baby,” he says. “That wouldn’t help you anyway.”

“I wasn’t—” 

“You were,” the demon accuses, but he doesn’t seem particularly offended, just intrigued, a curious twinkle in his eye. 

Jonny steels himself and clears his throat to speak; he called this meeting, time to act like it. 

“You know who I am?” he asks, raising his chin defiantly despite his fear, hands clenching into fists. The demon looks delighted. 

“I admired your work,” he shrugs, and Jonny doesn’t miss his deliberate use of the past tense; it stings, and it means he knows more than just who Jonny is, it seems. 

“Demons like hockey?” Jonny asks, skeptical and shaken. 

“You humans aren’t the only ones with hobbies, okay?” the demon replies easily, taking a step forward. Jonny takes a step back, attempting to maintain some semblance of control. 

“If you know my name, it’s only fair if I—” 

“Fair,” the demon mocks, rolling his eyes and blowing out a long-suffering breath. “I hear all day of unfairness and injustice, this and that. Is there even such a thing?” 

Jonny thinks of his own condition, the hits that led him here, and wonders about the fairness of it all. He finds he can’t argue against the demon’s point, words stuck in his throat. 

“I—”

“Kane,” the demon provides, taking pity on Jonny’s floundering, “Patrick Kane. Patrick to you, Kane to the pit.” 

“The pit?” Jonny questions stupidly, and the demon—Patrick—chuckles.

“Hell, Jonathan,” he says, condescendingly sweet. Jonny’s cheeks flush, pulse racing wildly at the sight of Patrick’s eyes, flashing deep red with a blink as he speaks, then returning to cool blue—a quick reminder of what he is. “Try and keep up.”

“I’m—So you’re—you said Cain,” Jonny says, trying to get a grasp on his nerves by filling the silence with chatter and meaningless details. “Like…Cain and Abel?”

“Oh, Jonathan, you flatter me!” Patrick preens, pearly-white smile pleased and blinding. “But no, I can only aspire to be that good at being bad. To be honest, he had this…unquenchable thirst for bloodshed that I just—” Patrick shivers, waving a dismissive hand. “I prefer to let others handle the dirty work. Cain would not approve.”

“Fine by me,” Jonny mumbles, tugging at his sleeves. He doesn’t know a lot about demons, only as much as he learned in his hasty research to find the summoning spell, but he thought killing was sort of in the job description; Jonny’s not going to question Patrick’s squeamishness.

“There are many ways to kill, Jonathan,” Patrick says ominously, as if he slid right into Jonny’s thoughts. “They don’t all require ruining a good suit. I could drop you like a fly without breaking a sweat, and I prefer it; my brothers and sisters would make a day of you instead.”

“A merciful demon?” Jonny retorts incredulously, secretly hoping he never runs into any of them. Patrick’s eyes narrow.

“It’s got nothing to do with you, sweetheart, let’s be clear,” he answers firmly, then smirks, looking Jonny over. “Though I do appreciate your bold spirit and that pretty face.”

Jonny searches Patrick’s in return, and through his unrelenting anxiety, he recognizes that Patrick is beautiful, too—menacing and sly and utterly frightening, but beautiful.

“T-Thanks,” Jonny stutters. “I guess.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Patrick replies, taking another step in Jonny’s direction, only a couple feet separating them. Jonny doesn’t move this time. “You’re here to make a deal?”

“I am,” Jonny nods, and Patrick licks his lips, tongue tracing them in a slow circle.

“May I?” he asks, raising a hand between them, and Jonny flinches. Patrick smiles, calm and mildly reassuring. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jonathan…not yet.”

He doesn’t wait for permission, lightly pressing his cool fingertips to Jonny’s forehead, and Jonny’s eyes flutter closed, a tingle of something…dark, not human traveling beneath his skin. After a second, Patrick’s hand falls away and so does that feeling.

“Your brain is fried like an egg,” Patrick states, matter of fact, and Jonny’s chest tightens; he already knew that. What he needs to know is—

“Can you fix it?” Jonny doesn’t miss the hopelessness in his own voice, and based on Patrick’s expression, neither does he.

“Can I fix it?” he repeats, amused. “You bet your sweet ass, I can, but it’ll cost you.”

“Anything,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s eyes widen.

“Don’t tell me that,” he admonishes, the curious gleam in his eye turning wicked. “You don’t mean it. Besides, there are rules to what I do; _anything_ is not on the table, only _one_ thing.”

“My…” Jonny can’t make himself say it.

“Your soul,” Patrick supplies. “But not for a while.”

“A while?”

“Ten years, Jonathan,” Patrick informs. “That’s the going rate. I fix your head, you get ten more years, and when time ticks out, you’re mine.”

“Yours?” Jonny asks, and he can’t explain why, but he feels a spark of arousal at the thought of it, and he’s sick with himself; this is a fucking demon he’s talking to.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Patrick replies, then his brow lifts in surprise, and he alluringly bites at his lip. “Or literally. I’m willing to negotiate on that, when the time comes.”

“Ten years,” Jonny repeats, thoughtful and internally frantic; that’s a long time. It’d put him retiring at thirty-six, a full career still ahead of him. Jonny wants it.

“You know,” Patrick remarks before Jonny can agree, “I’m not usually in the business of talking people out of deals—that’d cost _me_ , of course—but since I’m familiar with what you do, I have to ask: coaching not suit you?”

“No,” Jonny answers flatly. Maybe it would have, if things had played out differently, but Jonny’s seething with bitterness as it is; he can’t see himself revisiting the sport in any other capacity—not like this, not after a short-lived career. “It’s not enough.”

“I get that a lot,” Patrick says. “But I also get a lot of regret and whining and begging when I come a’callin’.”

“You won’t from me,” Jonny tells him, voice as hard and final as he can manage. Patrick’s mouth stretches into a satisfied grin.

“Well, in that case,” he starts, fully closing the distance between them. Jonny can feel the heat radiating off him, and his adrenaline spikes, pulse racing. “Looks like we have a deal.”

“Do—Do I sign something?”

Patrick laughs, sinister and simultaneously cheery, somehow. “No deals of mine can be sealed with mere ink and paper, Jonathan. They require something more.”

“More?” Jonny wonders, confused. Patrick’s already taking his goddamn soul, what else could he possibly—

“Your mouth, baby,” Patrick clarifies, grabbing Jonny’s jacket and pulling them chest-to-chest. “Been looking forward to this since you called me up—yes or no?”

“My head will be back to normal, right?” Jonny asks, beseeching and afraid, but so sure at the same time. He has to do this; he’s out of options.

“As good as new,” Patrick confirms, smoothing a hand up Jonny’s chest and around to grip the back of his neck. “Do we have a deal, Jonathan?”

“We do,” Jonny breathes out, and Patrick licks his lips again, like he’s itching for it.

“You have to say yes, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” Jonny says, and Patrick presses their mouths together on an evil smile, eyes flashing red as he kisses him hard. Jonny doesn’t mean to, but he can feel his body responding immediately, melting into the kiss, and he grips Patrick’s hips, tight and bruising, and opens up for it. Patrick takes advantage, licking into Jonny’s mouth, groaning when Jonny’s tongue tangles with his; he nips at Jonny’s lower lip, pulling a whimper from him, and Jonny can feel Patrick’s answering grin just before he pulls away just slightly.

“I like you, Jonathan,” Patrick whispers, a mumbled admission against the corner of Jonny’s mouth, and leans up to his ear. “I look forward to collecting.”

Then, just as abruptly as he appeared, Patrick’s gone, and Jonny’s hands are empty, his lips still wet from their kiss.

Jonny jerks his head in all directions, looking for him, and he finds himself alone again, out in the middle of nowhere, night just as chilly as before. The movement doesn’t make him dizzy, though; the fog has been lifted. Patrick held up his end of the bargain, and in ten years, Jonny will have to do the same; but he feels normal, healthy for the first time in a long time, so it’s worth it.

The relief he feels makes sense.

The longing in Patrick’s absence, however, does not.


End file.
